


Yours Is Mine

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one else stands a chance against a virus that makes it past Peter Burke's ironclad immune system. Spoilers up through 5x05.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours Is Mine

**Author's Note:**

> There is no point to this, you guys. It is the h/c equivalent of PWP. It is purely an excuse for me to wallow in the canonical sickfic. It's also unbeta'd.

Feverish sex was actually kind of fun, El discovered. It made the whole thing a little bit surreal, like having sex while drunk, and the fever made her skin extra sensitive. Usually that made her really uncomfortable, but for sex, at least, it wasn’t bad. 

The downside, though, was that she fell asleep right afterward, without taking anything. Not that a dose of Airborne had much of a chance of helping at this late stage. If the virus had been able to get past Peter’s ironclad immune system, she didn’t stand a chance. And sure enough, she woke the next morning feeling decidedly more feverish. Also achey, sweaty, and sick to her stomach. 

“I’m sorry, hon,” Peter said, perching on the edge of the bed, thermometer in hand. 102, it claimed. El felt like she was freezing, even with Peter’s old college sweatshirt on over her pajamas and extra blankets on the bed. 

“It’s okay,” she said, huddling into the covers. “In sickness and health, right?” 

“Well, at least it’s Saturday,” Peter said, trying to sound optimistic. “I’m yours all day. I’ll call Mozzie, see if he can bring over some more of the stuff he gave me. What else do you need? Soup? Crackers? Ginger ale? Tylenol?”

She didn’t hit him with a pillow, mostly because it would’ve taken energy she didn’t have. “Hon, hon, stop, please,” she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “I just want to sleep.”

“You should stay hydrated,” Peter said. “I distinctly remember you telling me to stay hydrated.”

“Okay, okay,” she said with a sigh. “Ginger ale. There’s some still left from when you were sick.” That at least got him off the bed and down the stairs for a few minutes, so that she could pull the covers over her head and suffer in peace. Peter when he was sick - and no matter what he claimed, he _had_ had a cold or two in the time they’d been married - was a handful. Peter when _she_ was sick drove her crazy. 

“Mozzie didn’t answer,” Peter reported when he came back upstairs with her ginger ale in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other. “I left a message. Hopefully he hasn’t burned that phone by now.”

“He has a way of picking up messages,” El said, accepting her ginger ale. She wished briefly that it was hot tea instead, but at least it was wet. She sipped at it carefully and didn’t protest when Peter laid the damp towel across her forehead. 

Then he just sat there. Looking at her. 

She did not roll her eyes. Barely. “Hon, really, you don’t need to stay glued to me all day. I’m just going to sleep, maybe watch some TV.”

“I know, sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to hover. I just feel bad. It’s kind of my fault you’re sick.”

She gave him a look. “It’s really not,” she said. “What’s yours is mine, right? That goes for the gross stuff, too.”

“I suppose,” Peter said, dubiously. His phone buzzed and he glanced at it, then grimaced. “Neal seems to feel differently,” he said, holding it out for so she could see the screen. 

Neal had written: _I want to die and it’s all your fault._

If she’d been feeling better, El probably would’ve laughed. As it was, she managed half a smile. “To be fair, you’re not actually married to Neal.”

Peter shook his head. “I guess I’d better call him. Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?”

“Yes,” she said, firmly, and nudged at him with her foot. “Go.”

***

“This is all your fault,” Neal greeted Peter. 

Peter sighed into the phone. “You’re sick?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Neal said. “This is why sick people should _stay home_ , so that they don’t get everyone around them sick, too.”

Peter felt mildly guilty. First El, now Neal. He probably should’ve quarantined himself after all. “Is Mozzie around? That stuff he gave me worked great.”

“No idea where Moz is,” Neal said. He snuffled miserably, then coughed. “God, how did you work through this? I want to die.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s the flu.”

“It’s the _plague_ ,” Neal moaned.

Peter managed not to roll his eyes again. He’d been in bad shape himself, and Neal didn’t have Elizabeth to look after him. “Do you have what you need? Tylenol and food or -”

“No food,” Neal said, muffled, as though he’d shoved his face in his pillow. 

Peter wondered if that meant he didn’t have any food, or if Neal was just objecting to the existence of food at the moment. Possibly both. “You need to at least stay hydrated. What about tea? Do you have tea?”

Neal’s reply was completely indistinct. Peter thought there were pretty good odds that he didn’t have any tea in his cupboards. He was sure that June did, but he guessed that Neal probably hid himself away when he was sick, so that no one had to see him looking less than perfect. He probably wasn’t venturing out of his rooms at all right now. 

Further questions didn’t get much more out of Neal than vague mumbles. By the end of the conversation, Peter was more worried than he’d expected. “Look, El’s sick, too, but I don’t think she’d mind if I came to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Neal said, or at least, that was what Peter was fairly certain he’d said. 

Peter decided it wasn’t worth asking him why he’d called, then. “Then let me assuage my guilt.”

Neal managed to huff a laugh. “Fine. Door’s unlocked, just come in.”

“All right. See you in a bit.” Peter hung up, then stood for a minute, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t actually married Neal, but sometimes it certainly felt like it. 

Upstairs, El was curled into a boneless puddle in their bed, watching something on her laptop. She’d drained the glass of ginger ale, Peter saw with satisfaction. He leaned over to feel her forehead with the backs of his fingers, and she blinked up at him. “Neal okay?” she asked, sounding sleepy. 

“He’ll live,” Peter said, “but if you’ll be all right for a little while, I thought I might go check on him.”

El gave a vague wave of her hand, already looking back toward her laptop. “Told you, I’m okay. I don’t make things worse for myself when I’m sick by trying to be a hero, unlike other people who shall remain nameless.”

Peter sighed. “I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did.”

***

It had been a long time since Neal had last had the flu. Flu shots were required for both prisoners and guards in prison, because someone had done the math and realized it was cheaper to pay for the shots than to hire extra staff when people got sick. Before that, it had been Copenhagen, he thought. Forging a Dutch master while running a hundred and three degree fever had been a fascinating experience, and as far as he knew his copy was as yet undiscovered. 

He thought about painting now, except that would involve being upright, and Neal was really loving being horizontal. His single attempt so far at being vertical - a trip to the bathroom he couldn’t avoid - had ended with him throwing up into his sink.

He would’ve never admitted it, but it was probably a good thing Peter had insisted on coming over to check on him. 

He was half-dozing when Peter let himself with a rustle of shopping bags. “Hey, you awake?” Peter asked quietly. 

“Yeah,” Neal said, rolling over in the bed. “Barely.”

“I brought you some stuff,” Peter said, and then frowned. “What is that buzzing noise?”

Neal rolled his eyes. “The beehives.”

“The - oh.” Peter blinked out at the balcony for a moment, then shook his head. “Any luck getting ahold of Moz?”

“No,” Neal said, closing his eyes. “Figures. He’s practically living here for days, driving me crazy, and then when I actually need to reach him, he’s no where to be found.” He opened one eye and fixed Peter with a baleful gaze. “Have I mentioned that I blame you for this?”

“Once or twice,” Peter said, seating himself on the edge of the bed. He laid his hand on Neal’s forehead and frowned. “Have you taken anything? Or eaten anything?”

“No and no,” Neal admitted. “I got sick to my stomach earlier. Food didn’t sound like a great idea after that. Or pills, either.”

“Well, let’s try again,” Peter said. “I brought you applesauce and oatmeal. Which one sounds the least repulsive?”

“Applesauce, I guess,” Neal said, and pushed himself up so he was sort of sitting. He watched Peter poke around in his cupboards for a little dish to put the applesauce in. “How’s El doing?” he asked after a moment.

“All right,” Peter said, bringing over the applesauce with a spoon. He had a glass of water in his other hand; he’d dropped some sort of tablet into it, which was foaming and turning the water an alarmingly neon shade of orange. “I think I was annoying her by hovering. She doesn’t like being fussed over when she’s sick.”

“She prefers to do the fussing?” Neal asked, accepting his dish of applesauce. 

“Yep,” Peter said. “Anyway, I think she was happy to get rid of me for a while.”

Neal nodded. He ate a few bites of applesauce, enough to please Peter at least, and then took the pills Peter handed him. He was dubious about the fizzy, orange water; even if it was loaded with vitamin C, Neal generally made a point of not putting neon things into his body. But it didn’t taste too bad, and he decided he’d give his immune system any boost he could at this point. 

He only realized he’d started to nod off over it when he felt Peter take the glass away from him. Sleepily, he let Peter help him lie down and managed to mumble a reply when Peter told him he’d put orange juice and the rest of the applesauce in the fridge. 

“The oatmeal’s on the counter. Call if you need anything, all right?” Peter said. “Neal?”

“Yup,” Neal managed. “Call. Will.”

The last thing he recalled before he fell asleep was Peter’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

***

The house was quiet when Peter arrived home. The only thing stirring was Satchmo, who had clearly missed his walk. Peter let him out into the backyard and then climbed the stairs to check on El. 

She was asleep. It looked like she’d fallen asleep watching something on her laptop, but the screen was dark now, so that was probably some time ago. Peter closed the computer and shifted it onto the armchair, then tried to check her temperature without waking her. 

No such luck. She stirred. “P’ter?” she mumbled. 

“It’s me,” Peter said, sliding onto the bed beside her. “Sorry, didn’t want to wake you.”

“How’s Neal?” she asked, sleepily. 

“He’ll live,” Peter said, smiling. “I brought him some stuff, and I ran into June on my way out. She said she’d keep an eye on him.”

“Good,” El said, and she shifted over so that her head was in Peter’s lap. Peter took the hint and started stroking her hair. She made an appreciative noise and closed her eyes. 

“How’re you feeling?” Peter asked after a minute or two, when she didn’t immediately fall back to sleep.

“Okay,” she said. “Kind of thirsty.”

“You want more ginger ale?”

“Mmm. Tea maybe.”

“One hot tea, coming right up.” Peter kissed her on the crown of her head and slid off the bed.

He decided to do some dishes and feed Satchmo while he was waiting for the water to boil. He had just closed the dishwasher and set it to run when there was a knock at the door. He paused. 

He knew that knock. Iambic pentameter always meant one person.

“Mozzie,” he said, opening the door. “I sort of thought you’d call first.”

Mozzie waved this off and stepped inside, even though Peter hadn’t actually invited him in yet. “I figured I’d save us some time. Mrs. Suit still under the weather?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Neal, too, actually.”

“You were a real Typhoid Peter, weren’t you?” Mozzie said, and smirked, apparently amused by his own joke. “Never fear, though,” he added, before Peter had much chance to do anything beyond roll his eyes. “I have enough tincture for Mrs. Suit.”

“And Neal, too?” Peter asked, accepting the three vials Mozzie handed to him.

“Neal, too. Don’t worry, he’ll be well enough by Monday for you to continue to oppress him in person.”

“Thank you, Moz,” Peter said, forcing himself to sound sincere, rather than annoyed.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Moz said, as Peter began subtly moving him toward the door. “Do you have any idea what something like this would retail for?”

“Nothing. You don’t have FDA approval,” Peter said. “You can’t sell it.”

“Ha,” Mozzie said as Peter finally managed to chivvy him out onto the porch. “FDA approval can be bought and sold, just ask Monsanto.”

“Thank you, Mozzie,” Peter said firmly, and shut the door with a sigh of relief before going to dose his sick wife with - God help him - Moz’s dubious home remedies.

Mozzie might’ve been crazy, and whatever was in those vials might’ve been less than FDA-approved, but it definitely worked. By later that evening, Elizabeth’s fever was down and her color was a lot better. She managed some soup for dinner before falling asleep early. Peter turned out all the lights in their room except for his bedside lamp and sat beside her in the bed, filing paperwork from his laptop. 

His phone buzzed. Peter glanced at it. 

_Do you know why Moz is ranting about Monsanto?_ Neal had written. 

Peter rolled his eyes. _No idea_ , he wrote back. _Feeling better?_

_Yeah, thanks. El?_

_Better, too._

There was a longer than usual pause. Then Neal wrote back, _Good. Thanks for coming over today. It helped._

Peter hesitated for a few moments, considering. _Anytime,_ he wrote, and hoped that Neal knew he meant it. _Get some rest tomorrow, all right?_

_I will. Good night, Peter. See you Monday._

_See you Monday,_ Peter replied, and set his phone aside with a smile. 

_Fin_


End file.
